


Dream Blossoms

by Rubynye



Category: Lord of the Rings (2001 2002 2003)
Genre: F/F, Genderswap
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-09
Updated: 2010-01-09
Packaged: 2017-10-06 01:27:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,880
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/48229
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rubynye/pseuds/Rubynye
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Frodo dreams about Sam.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dream Blossoms

**Author's Note:**

> So, I wrote this because I was inspired by two amazing artists, [](http://hyel.livejournal.com/profile)[**hyel**](http://hyel.livejournal.com/) and [](http://billthepony.livejournal.com/profile)[**billthepony**](http://billthepony.livejournal.com/). (But it's not their fault.) Hyel drew a beautiful picture (which may be seen here: <http://www.livejournal.com/users/hyelandia/22680.html>). Bill the Pony wrote, in one of her stories, Frodo making a statement that I have him make below. Throw these two facts into my imagination, press "frappe", add a straw and suck hard.
> 
> This doesn't fit with the continuity of my other stories, I suppose, not that it matters overmuch.
> 
> Oh, and yes, this is mostly femslash.

Despite a good smoke, a good laugh, and a sweet kiss, all shared with Sam, Frodo was still cross when he went to bed. For both of them the day had been marred by unpleasant conversations, Frodo's with Bilbo and Sam's with his Gaffer, concerning marriage. Amusingly enough, both Sam and Frodo had stated at some point, "I would wed my lover if he were a girl," which did not help during the discussions but at least provided for a laugh when they stole a moment in the evening to have a smoke together in the garden. After some teasing over who would make a better lass, they had shared an early goodnight kiss, mindful of their guardians' lingering ire, and now Frodo lay in bed, sulking (though he would never have admitted it), wishing for Sam's strong young arms around him and thinking that it was needless and unfair for Bilbo to press him about marrying, let alone for Sam's Gaffer to trouble Sam with the idea when Sam was barely a tween and already far too responsible for his tender years.

Smiling at the thought of Sam, Frodo thought about what else was tender about him, and what Sam might look like as a girl, and for that matter what he himself might; with vague images of a lass with his mother's face and narrow waist dancing in his head, Frodo slipped into sleep.

 

 

It had to be a dream. It was Frodo's bedroom, but impossible moonlight was pouring in, and it had been a quarter-moon that night. And the bed was wider, hazily fading off around the edges, and Frodo had breasts.

_Breasts_?

Yes, breasts, round and high, not very large. She looked down at them, and then leaned over, and looked down her front, past the breasts and over a still-slender belly and down to where there was, well, there wasn't, really. Raising a hand in surprise, Frodo cautiously skimmed the patch of curls with her fingertips, concentrating of the feel of her body as she did so. A petal, two, three, four, and a nub which made her jerk with a transfixing pleasure when she touched it. And, below that....Well. She _was_ a girl, with a boy's name.

Frodo blinked, and thought that perhaps she should be alarmed, but it was really rather, well, intriguing. She'd lain with several lasses in waking life, and though her tastes turned to lads preferentially she still found lasses quite pleasant; why not be a lass for the length of a dream?

A flicker of cloth brushed her wrist; Frodo blinked again, at her nightshirt as it lay draped across her arm. Had it been there before? And the door was opening, and there stood Sam.

Sam was quite something to see. A long thick braid of fair hair hung over her shoulder, dipping between heavy breasts; her waist was surprisingly little considering the sweet curves of belly and broad hips, sturdy shoulders and round arms, outlined by her translucent nightshirt. Sam's nightshirt? Berhael's nightshirt? The Sindarin form of Sam's name floated in Frodo's mind like a whisper, and she briefly considered if it made sense to call a female Samwise by an Elvish name, before that same sweet smile and those same wide warm brown eyes drove all thoughts of sense from Frodo's head.

"Hullo, Miss Frodo," Sam/Berhael/Frodo's sweetheart said in a lovely alto, holding out hands that were still broad, and, when Frodo took them, still comfortably, familiarly callused. But then, Samwise or Berhael, lass or lad, she would always work hard, and always smile sweetly, and always stir heat in Frodo's belly as she leaned down to kiss her mistress with lips that felt just as soft and even a bit fuller. One warm callused hand slid over Frodo's cheek into her hair, and that was when she noticed the curls tumbling down her back; she arched as that hand skimmed the nape of her neck, and what was that feeling, breasts pressing yieldingly against breasts? Frodo's nipple brushed Sam's, and it pebbled, and the circle of bumps around it rose, and then another circle, and Frodo recalled that as a lass her nipples would be larger, and then she was very glad indeed that they were when Sam's other hand curved round the other breast, fingers pressing warmly into soft flesh. Frodo gasped, mouth slipping from the kiss and down across Sam's soft cheek to a throat without that familiar bump but with the same familiar sunny musky taste, and now Sam gasped, and pulled Frodo closer, and she could almost have been annoyed at the breasts that made it a little harder to press belly to belly, until she wriggled her thigh up over Sam's and brought a hand up to fill it with one of those generous breasts, thumbing the nipple, and Sam moaned in her ear. Weren't there nightshirts?

"Frodo, Frodo," Sam murmured, sounding so like herself and so not, and she nuzzled Frodo's ear and sucked the tip into her mouth, and Frodo moaned and forgot nightshirts and felt herself warming to heat and, well, it felt different, not filling and expansion and hardness, but warmth pooling and dampness. Lovely, certainly, especially when Sam's thigh pressed between Frodo's legs, sending little sparks along the nerves in her petals and a larger set through her nub, and Frodo moaned and licked Sam's collarbone, then licked the top of one swellling breast, the other still warm and heavy in her hand. "Me dear, me dear," Sam was murmuring now. This dream-Sam certainly spoke a great deal, but then girls generally did, didn't they?

"Berhael," Frodo heard herself say, voice high for a lass as it had been for a lad, or perhaps she said "Samwise," or was it "sweetheart"? No matter; Sam was atop her now, thigh holding its sweet pressure between Frodo's legs, fingers of one hand still in her hair, the fingers of the other trailing down over her belly and over the patch of maiden-curls and between and _oh!_ it felt as if all the sensation of Frodo's prick and eggs and all was wrapped into that little fingertip-sized nub. But then, that was how it was, wasn't it? Hadn't Aster peaked violently that one time when he stroked her there, so hard he thought she'd swooned?

Or was that Pearl, or---oh, it mattered not at all, as Sam stroked it again, and Frodo jerked into her hand, hearing herself wail. It happened so, and Frodo knew it, and now she could feel it, and that was all that mattered. "Yes," she said, or "Sam," or "More," and whatever she said, Sam gave her more, stroking her petals, stroking her nub, warm soft body pressed to Frodo's, face pressed cheek to cheek as Sam crooned to her and stroked her and Frodo felt herself peak, but, the fire rushed through her but didn't let her drop, she was still up, oh, yes, this was quite a good dream, and Sam was kissing her again, mouth sweet as ever, tongues tangling. "Oh, Sam," Frodo whispered when the kiss broke. "I want to do that to you."

"Well, here I am, Miss Frodo." And now Frodo was on top, face buried between Sam's breasts, yes, Sam would be this delighfully buxom, a nipple firm in Frodo's mouth and her fingers damp and hot and Sam clutching her shoulders and moaning, just as she did when she was a he, only instead of "sir sir sir" saying "miss miss miss!" as she bucked herself into Frodo's hand and peaked.

Frodo brought her hand to her mouth and sucked on her fingers, trying to remember how she'd first thought of this taste, not bitter-salty like a lad's seed but with a tang all its own, musky and a little sweet and savory all at once. Different. Sam opened her brown eyes again, and smiled, and pulled Frodo down for a kiss, and they were wound in each other, on their sides, and Sam's hair had come loose from that braid and lay about them, a wavy flaxen cloud. Sam was really quite beautiful, Frodo thought; but then, Sam was always beautiful.

"Oh, Sam, I almost wish I were still a lad," Frodo murmured into that cloud of golden hair. "I so want to tup you."

"Ah, me dear, but if you were I couldn't do this." How was Sam nestled between Frodo's thighs now? And was that her mouth, yes it was, warm lips enfolding one of Frodo's inner lips, tongue stroking it, fingers caressing, two sinking in, and Frodo gasped at the feeling. It was like having fingers within her as a lad, and yet not; the feeling was at once more diffuse and more even, and she clenched down around them and felt muscles all up and down, yes, she remembered now, and Sam was gently sucking on that petal as Frodo had with that little apricot-haired Took last Yule, oh how the lass cried out and spent! And that was what Frodo was doing now, in Sam's hands, Sam's mouth, so hard the moonlight shattered into a million stars behind Frodo's eyes.

And she was all sticky.

And was male, and awake, and had indeed peaked all over himself, belly and chest, and the nightshirt lay on the floor; the light was golden, it was morning, and the door was opening, and Sam stood there, hands on his male hips, smiling down at his groggy master. "That must have been some dream, Mr. Frodo," Sam said, in his warm tenor, and turned to fetch a handkerchief as Frodo blinked dazedly at him, the image of buxom dream-Sam floating beside the sturdy broad-shouldered reality.

Then Frodo caught his breath, as the sunlight caught in Sam's hair, as Sam turned back around, handkerchief in hand. "So, sir, what would your pleasure be for first breakfast?" Sam asked as Frodo swiped at himself; his eyes went round when Frodo tossed the handkerchief vaguely in the direction of the nightshirt and wrapped his hand round Sam's wrist. "You, Sam," Frodo said, his own voice husky and low in his ears, not the high feminine piping he recalled from his dream.

"Mr. Frodo, sir! Are you sure? You just, I mean, I saw---" Frodo tugged with all his strength, and Sam actually took a stumbling step closer before standing straighter, trying to resist. "Now see here, sir, begging your pardon, but after the talks we were both given yesterday---"

"Is Bilbo still asleep?" Frodo asked absently, working on Sam's laces with one hand, not daring to let go of Sam's wrist with the other. "Well, yes, Mr. Frodo," Sam replied, "as far as I saw, but you can't just go hauling a body into bed---!" Sam ended on a squeak, as Frodo took him into his mouth without preamble, sucking till his cheeks hollowed, feeling Sam hardening against his tongue. "You are a wicked hobbit," Sam whispered lovingly, climbing into the bed; he carefully straddled Frodo, who made an indistinct murmur of agreement as he pushed Sam's breeches and smalls down with his other hand. Yes, the real Sam was still male, Frodo thought with satisfaction and his mouth full, delightfully so.


End file.
